


your bones, and deeper

by vaec (aosc)



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Unity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 16:50:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2629142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aosc/pseuds/vaec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arno quirks an eyebrow. "You mean -- that were you voluntarily asking me to strip you, it'd ease your conscience?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	your bones, and deeper

**Author's Note:**

> ummmm. devoid of plot. and reason. oh my god what is happening, this ship is actually taking over my brain.

* * *

 

Napoleon leaves Paris at the heart of fall as the Commanding Officer of a convoy escorting a number of powder wagons to Nice. He stays temporarily in Toulon, a courtesy visit to please the nationalist in him, meeting with a Corsican Diplomat in the French camp. At this point, Arno concedes his informants, and waits, dedicating instead for distant wars his time to Paris, her troubles and her fascinating characters.

 

In the midst of December, at first snow, Napoleon returns, a distinguished General whom almost single handedly bears the Siege of Toulon, and consequently, the French victory, upon his shoulders. Even the Journal des Débates writes of the victory, albeit quick to note that it was not solely due to himself, but nonetheless its story is characterized by mild impress.

 

Arno watches both of the events, the going, and the coming, unfold from the respective rooftops of the Parisian militia's headquarters, and the brasserie opposing Napoleon's estate. He brushes snow from the creases in the bend of his elbow, and, without awaiting the leave of Napoleon's cortége, he makes the leap to cross the buildings, landing in a practiced roll on the roof to the newly promoted General's private quarters. The tiles are dangerously wet, slippery lest you know where to step, and the cold bites viciously. Arno walks with care the meters from the southern point of the roof, rounding the fork which separates the wing from the main building, and, from a squat, slides down the facade, aiming for the balcony ledge.

 

The door isn't locked, as per usual, so Arno puts the tip of his boot to the glass and pushes delicately, leaving a yawn only just large enough to slip through without bringing with him too much of the cold air which permeates easily the artificial warmth of inside the house. He is careful not to leave tracks, so once he hears several steps emerge from the mouth of the staircase, he unlaces his boots, their soles wet, and crosses the room with them in hand, towards the half agape door. He ducks half bowed in behind it and flattens his back to fit the slim scissure there.

 

It's certainly grand, stretching windows and the ceiling arching. It encompasses a large bed, a mahogany desk, no doubt of exclusive handcraft, and several leveled bookcases. Arno has ran the rows down once, fingers tracing the titles etched upon books old and worn. Of military strategy, history, chronicles of the Roman Empire, and Renaissance fiction. For the methodical man that Napoleon prides himself on being, a prime example of the pragmatic military officer, Arno revels in the pleasure of often quoting either of the great philosophers, and being on the receiving end of a comeback derived from the same source material.

 

The door creaks a little when it gives way, swinging inwards, for the few men entering the room, and Arno keeps his breathing measured, quiet.

 

"I thank you for your assistance, Lieutenant. I believe that I might be capable to handle myself, from hereon," Napoleon says, being the farthest of the men in the room. Arno hears the stomp of boots, no doubt saluting from both of the accompanying officers. "Yes Sir," the one assumedly spoken to, replies, "Be well, Sir."

 

They take leave, not too long a moment after, and Arno hears the shuffle of Napoleon as he moves about, slowly, limping. He frowns, having taken no notice of an injury at the arriving of the carriage. The spoils of war, he supposes. He waits until Napoleon's men have descended the stairs, their signature footsteps -- one slightly heavy, the other clumsily unaware of how to move efficiently, fade into the bustle of the lower level, and then tips the door shut with the splay of his hand. It creaks horribly, because, Arno thinks, _apparently the dusting of floors is of utter importance, but the oiling of lock mechanisms and door hinges is not_.

 

Napoleon twists around in alarm, probably with as much haste as he can muster, his hand already a curl around the handle of his gun when he recognizes Arno's slouching figure.

 

"Tell me, _Général de Brigade_ , how is the seaside this time of year?" Arno asks, tilting his head. "I hear it's quite beautiful, at least from the safety of indoors."

 

Napoleon smiles, though it is very tired, and lets his hand slip from his belt. "Arno, what a surprise," he says.

 

Arno studies him -- pale, not only due to winter's short day and long night, his cheekbones more sculpted than they were, bruises of unrest plain beneath his eyes. He supports himself on the sloping hilt of a cane, and through his attire, Arno sees the protrusion of bandages high on his thigh. He nods at it. "And apparently, they hand out free souvenirs."

 

Napoleon sighs a laugh, as though his voice does not carry. "The realities of war," he replies, a touch dry. "I'm confined to my desk for an extended period of time, and though dull as it may sound, I will revel in it after four months in a military camp, constantly looking over my shoulder for ineptitude, betrayal, or the combination thereof." He turns momentarily, to hobble the remaining distance over to the bedside, and slowly allows himself to sink down onto the mattress.

 

Arno pushes off the far wall, walking over to the General, who is grimacing bent double to unlace his boots, and crouches before him. Napoleon looks up at him. "Under normal circumstances, I'd be quite pleased to find you in this position. Now, not so much," he says, and sighs, when Arno pries his fingers from the laces, starting at them himself. He quirks an eyebrow at Napoleon. "You mean -- that were you voluntarily asking me to strip you, it'd ease your conscience?"

 

Napoleon laughs, but refrains from replying, so Arno figures he's managed to get his concession. He works for a few minutes, gradually rising from the floor; one knee cautiously almost touching Napoleon's thigh, his fingers on the buttons of Napoleon's overcoat, his own heartbeat in his throat, Napoleon's quiet, yet slightly irregular breathing, by his hairline. It errs on the other side of cautious, this display of palpable intimacy in the final hour of daylight. Arno pushes the coat from Napoleon's shoulders, and fingers the hem of his trousers, the straps of his belt.

 

"So," he says, quiet, but opening the door to conversation. "Tell me of these last few months."

 

Napoleon replies with an expression which says, _really now_ , and rather than seizing the opportunity to turn this into something more -- casual, he snatches the front of Arno's jacket, pulling him along down, down. "I believe the point of coming home, is to shed work, if only for a few hours each night," Napoleon says, and twists his fingers into Arno's hair, pressuring the back of his skull until he relents, humming with content, and leans into the kiss. It's not at all gentle; Napoleon presses them flush together, the fatigue which seemed to pervade him just a moment ago, replaced with a fervor which spreads through Arno like wild fire.

 

The General fumbles with the buttons of Arno's undershirt, and breaks the kiss with wet lips to murmur a dark stringent of curse in Italian. "Pardon," he says, realizing his error momentarily, "Recently, it seems to come to me quite naturally."

 

"My," Arno quips, "And during a time when nationalism is the ideal, no less." He shuns Napoleon's fingers from his buttons, making quick work of the already half open shirt, and shrugs it off, along with the rest of his clothes, to rustle to the floor. Napoleon sighs, as though finally realizing he is homecoming, and drags blunt nails down Arno's chest, trailing hard lines around bruises, and prods with fascination a sewn knife wound across his right hand side ribs.

 

"You are as astounding as ever," Napoleon breathes, palming a yellowing knuckled imprint at his side. Arno hisses his breath through his teeth, balancing his weight on his thighs and in the bracket of his knees, urging Napoleon's arms up so that they may yet be rid of his shirt. "Don't let that get to my head," Arno mumbles into Napoleon's skin, teeth grazing just beneath his ear, the curl of hair there frayed and auburn.

 

"And if it is supposed to?" Napoleon puts his index finger on Arno's jaw, tilting his head so that their eyes meet. Arousal coils tightly in Arno's belly at Napoleon's eyes darkened, wide. He pushes on the military commissioned belt, gold plated, scripted between its fashioned characters the initials _N.B_ , and Arno bows down to mouth the shadow of a protruding hip whilst his fingers work on pulling the loops loose.

 

"Then this might just become a regular occurrence." Arno hitches his breeches down, licks a kiss into his inner thigh, and looks up beneath fringe at Napoleon, who, for all of a dark flush blotching his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, smiles with admirable control. "Then it might just," he agrees, and cradles Arno's jaw between the pinch of two fingers, as though judging, the light rim of color in his eyes searching Arno's face for something that will be true to the touch. 

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> blurb (light spoilers): i'm screwing with canon, since ubisoft have, in turn, screwed with history. napoleon and arno meet on the journée of the tenth of august in 1792, at which point napoleon introduces himself as a second lieutenant of artillery. irl, he's already made captain in february of the same year, so i'm being a bit liberate with his military career in here, and other drafts (...). this takes place in 1794, however, just as he's promoted to brigadier general after the siege of toulon. so, in short: up yours, ubisoft, i'm captaining this ship now!


End file.
